


I Thoroughly Lived

by traccigaryn



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Corsetry, Episode: s01e13 Cathexis, Episode: s01e16 Learning Curve, Episode: s02e08 Persistence of Vision, F/M, Gothic, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traccigaryn/pseuds/traccigaryn
Summary: Governess Lucille Davenport arrives at Lord Burleigh's home to tutor his children, but the house holds secrets and temptations beyond her comprehension.It's theVoyager/Jane Eyre/gothic romance mashup the show teased us with then failed to deliver.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 74
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With special thanks to [coffeeblack75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeblack75) for her, as always, insightful and careful betaing!

_England, 1847_

I took another sip of tea and longed for coffee. I had not thought it possible for any coach to be as uncomfortable as the hackney I had ridden in yesterday, but its successor this morning proved me wrong. And our pre-dawn departure had trampled my visions of starting the day with my favorite beverage. Mrs. Templeton's hauteur had made it clear my mid-morning arrival was an unwelcome disruption and had abandoned me in the parlour with only a small pot of tea to warm myself. 

The window flew open with a loud crash, jarring me from my reverie. 

As I moved to close it against the storm outside, I was alarmed to see something — someone — reflected in the glass. I spun to look behind me, and my eye was caught by the portrait of an elegant woman with curly black hair. Just a trick of the light. I stepped forward to look closer at her face only to feel a heavy hand come to rest on my shoulder. Another gasp, another whirl, and I nearly collided with a stern, striking man with dark hair. 

"Forgive me. I startled you," he said.

"I'm sorry." My heart was still thundering in my chest. "I didn't hear you come in." 

"Mrs. Davenport, I'll come to the point." He certainly was. "I am not an easy man to live with. Since my wife died I'm told I'm even worse. She was a buffer for me."

My new employer was not the first person to discover life was more difficult without a spouse. And like many men of his station, I suspected he'd had little to do with his children even before his wife's death. "I understand," I told him in my best reassuring voice. This was, after all, why I was here.

Lord Burleigh continued in his abrupt way, echoing my thoughts. "The children are the ones who've suffered. I've not been much of a father to them, and God knows I can't be a mother. I'm not asking that you replace their mother, but I think that they'll respond to a woman's sensibilities. You might fill a void in their lives."

"I'll certainly try, Your Grace," I said. This was my first post as a governess, but I remembered my own governess with great fondness, and I hoped I would be able to develop a similar rapport with my new charges.

Lord Burleigh's next words dampened my spirits. "Young Henry is sometimes a bit stubborn and little Beatrice misses her mother terribly. She speaks of little else. I hope they won't make things difficult for you." I sighed inwardly. A parent calling his child 'a bit stubborn' meant the boy was truly a terror. And between a bully for a brother and her mother's sudden death, it was no wonder Beatrice had apparently retreated into herself.

I was so focused on how I might win over these children, I nearly missed his next words. "One thing above all I must demand. You are never, under any circumstances, to go onto the fourth floor. Is that clear?"

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" I said in astonishment. 

"The fourth floor of the house," he repeated, but providing no further detail. "You and the children must never go there."

"Of course," I murmured, even as my mind raced with possible explanations. 

"I am glad that is understood," Lord Burleigh said. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have business with my steward before dinner. Tonight we will dine alone. Moving forward, I will expect you to dine with the children and me formally each evening, though you will, of course, eat luncheon with them in the schoolroom. I will see you soon." He left as suddenly as he'd arrived.

So that was my new employer. 

The rain rattled the window again, and I jumped. I had been in Lord Burleigh's home mere moments, and already the atmosphere of the place had begun to creep into my bones. 

First Mrs. Templeton, the thin-faced housekeeper, had drawn battle lines with me over tea, and then that conversation with Lord Burleigh. I had little experience with earls or other members of the peerage, and so no frame of reference, but even I thought that sharp words and mysterious warnings were perhaps beyond the realm of usual behavior. Exactly what kind of post had I accepted?

As I contemplated my fate, Bridget, the housemaid, returned to tell me my trunk had been delivered to my room and unpacked. I followed her out of the drawing room, eager to see more of the house. It was a large and imposing structure from the outside, four stories tall, with two wings extending to the east and west. I learned Lord Burleigh, the children, and their nanny lived in the east wing, while my room was on the second floor of the west wing. The schoolroom was a floor above me. 

"And the fourth floor?" I asked Bridget as innocently as I could.

"Oh miss — Mrs. Davenport. There's nothing there to see, just closed up rooms, that is," she said, obviously uncomfortable with my question. I let the matter lie. 

My room was ample and well-proportioned. A curtained bed dominated one corner, while two overstuffed chairs and matching footstools were arranged comfortably in front of the fireplace. The writing table was small, but I could make do. Various other pieces of furniture were scattered about, and the attached dressing room held plenty of space for a bath when it was brought up. 

"Thank you, Bridget," I said. "I can find my way back downstairs for dinner."

"The dining room is at the end of the hallway to your left as you come down the stairs, miss — Mrs. Davenport. Dinner is at eight-thirty sharp."

"I remember," I told her with a smile. Mrs. Templeton's admonition had been quite clear. 

I changed out of my rumpled travelling suit and into a formal gown for dinner. As I waited, I pulled out my copy of _The Divine Comedy,_ a gift from my late husband. I lost myself again in Dante's words for as long as I could before reluctantly setting it aside for dinner. 

The meal was a strange affair. Lord Burleigh was by turns charming and taciturn, eliciting and demanding responses of me. I could make no sense of his changeable behavior, as one mood followed hard upon the heels of the last. Were it not for the glimpses of humor I saw from time to time, I might have been tempted to pack my bags and leave on the next coach.

As though I had much choice. My husband had died right after the new year. Mark had had some money of his own to support us while he was alive, but there was little left after the settlements. And our manuscript, even after publication, would not generate more than a pittance in income. My father and husband might have indulged my bluestocking ways, but without them — or some other man of similarly advanced ideas — I had no rights or place in society. I had spent six months living with my younger sister and her husband, but while I loved Phoebe, she had her own household to run as well as our mother already in residence. What's more, being dependent on her husband even for pin money had been a burr in my soul. Eventually, I felt I had little choice but to seek employment through the limited avenues open to me. But without prior experience, my advertisement had yielded few responses, and I was grateful for the offer to teach Lord Burleigh's children.

I settled into a chair in front of my fire with a sigh. Dinner was finished. Tomorrow would truly begin my new life. I was not yet sure how I would be suited to be a governess, to live in other people's homes, not as a member of the family but as a paid employee. While I would earn a salary, I would also have different limitations placed on me than I had borne when relying upon my brother-in-law. And it seemed my first experience as a governess was to be a challenging one. But I am a stubborn creature, and I will face what I must. 

I reached for my Dante, to read a few more pages before bed, and stared in bafflement at the book. It lay open upon the table. I always mark my page with a slip of paper before closing the cover to preserve the spine. Surely I had done that this time? And yet, the book lay open before me. 

I shook my head, scattering mental fancies. It had been a long day. I must have simply been distracted before dinner.

* * *

I stood in the schoolroom the next morning, practicing my welcome to the children. Striking the right balance between formal and friendly was difficult.

Soon, a blond young boy and girl were brought before me, stiff and disapproving. 

"Good morning, children. It is good to see you," I said. "You must be Henry. And this is Beatrice." I held out my hand, but Henry gave a little bow.

"Henry Burleigh, Viscount Timmons. My sister, the Lady Beatrice Flora. You will address us as My Lord and My Lady." Little beast. I felt my temper rise, and then remembered he was a little beast whose father was paying my wages. 

I pasted a smile on my face and tried again. "Of course, My Lord. Please, sit down. Let's get to know one another, shall we? I'm Mrs. Davenport. I hope to be a friend to you as well as a governess."

" _In ullam rem ne properemus_." Had the child rebuffed me in Latin? I blinked at him, speechless.

"Is your Latin a bit rusty?" 

"I suppose it is," I told him honestly. My chin went up. "But, My Lord, I assure you that I am more than qualified to instruct you. I may have to brush up on my Latin, but when it comes to mathematics and the sciences, I'm sure you'll find my lessons challenging." I turned to his silent sister, hoping she would not be so difficult. "And Beatrice, what do you like to study?"

"I just made my first sampler," she told me with pride. "I finished it yesterday."

I beamed at her. "Did you? Oh, I'd love to see it sometime."

Her next words chilled me to the core. "I don't have it anymore. I gave it to Mother."

Before I could respond, Henry cut her off swifty. "My sister is confused. She gave the sampler to Mother before she died."

"No, I didn't. I gave it to her last night," Beatrice cried adamantly. "I talked to her!"

Oh, this was worse than I had expected. I knelt down in front of her. "Beatrice, I know it was a terrible thing to lose your mother."

"She's not dead! I saw her last night!" Beatrice shouted in my face then ran from the room. Henry cast a disdainful look at me and followed his sister. 

I stayed on the ground in shock. Was there going to be nothing easy about this position? Henry had clearly been raised to feel the full weight of his own import, but poor Beatrice … Still, I would not be defeated. I rose to my feet and went into the hallway. I met Bridget, bringing the children back to me. I thanked her, and we began our lessons without further dramatics.

Henry, for all his haughtiness, showed great proficiency with mathematics as well as Latin, and Beatrice was a lovely reader. 

I was pleased to provide their father with a positive report that evening at dinner. Lord Burleigh was all merriment, and I began to relax. Perhaps my arrival had been difficult for everyone. 

But my optimism was misplaced. For every good moment I had with Lord Burleigh, I had a tense one with Henry or Beatrice, who kept insisting she had seen her mother. On days the children were cheerful, my employer was reticent and rude. The stairs creaked, the windows rattled, and a draft in my room kept blowing my book pages open. After a sennight, I was beginning to jump at every sound.

One evening as I returned from dinner, I heard the sound of footsteps along the hall in front of me. I knew it was foolish, and yet I found myself calling out, "Lady Burleigh?" To my amazement, I heard a faint laugh. But it was not the laughter of a woman. It was the deep rumble of a man's laugh, and a shiver ran down my spine. 

No. I was a woman of science, and I did not believe these hints and whispers, I repeated to myself again. There was a rational explanation. Whatever it might be.

The next day, Lord Burleigh invited me to his study after dinner, and I accepted, grateful for a change of scene, even for a few moments. He'd asked me for another update on the children's progress, but was responding with minimal interest.

"I am worried about Beatrice, though," I said impulsively. He glanced up at me sharply. I now had his full attention. "She fantasizes that her mother is still alive. And she is quite adamant about it."

"She will grow out of it."

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it has been a number of months, hasn't it? She seems to still be in a very fragile state."

"She will grow out of it," he repeated. I opened my mouth to argue further, but he said, "Don't pursue this, I beg you. Keep the children off the fourth floor, and their attentions on their studies."

I could not understand this man. I could not understand this house. And my own place in it was grating as I had worried it might. As an employee, I had no real say in raising the children or correcting their behavior; I could only make suggestions to my employer, who was free to ignore them as he had just done. 

I retired not long after, thinking with relief of the hour or so I permitted myself in the library before bed whenever possible. I changed back into my day gown and was halfway down the stairs when I realized I wasn't wearing my shawl. The transition to Autumn had begun, and the library was chilly in the evenings after the fires were banked. I turned back to my room and rushed inside, already thinking of which book I should discover tonight. 

A man sat in my side chair, turning the pages of my manuscript.

An involuntary gasp escaped me, and his head jerked up, eyes wide. He rose and stalked in my direction, moving with a lithe grace unexpected in such a large man. 

I took a step back, then another, but my retreat was arrested by my shoulders hitting the door. I had nowhere else to go, and he was still coming toward me. I was only holding a candlestick, but I brandished it at him. "Who are you, sir?" I asked, forcing a cold control into my voice. "Why have you intruded upon my bedchamber?"

He did not halt his advance, but as he drew nearer, I saw that he looked as unsettled as I felt. More remarkably, I realized I could see him before me, and yet I could also see the features of my chamber through and behind him. The combined thunderbolt of these revelations caused my hand to relax, and the candlestick drooped to my side. 

The man, if I could call him that, stopped bare inches from me, perusing my face intently. Marshalling my will, I lifted my chin and studied him in turn. Despite his partial translucence, I could discern numerous details. He had burnished bronze skin, unfashionably long crow-black hair liberally threaded with grey, and the ink of a tattoo curving above his left eyebrow. He was wearing a tailcoat and a white linen shirt, but an image flashed in my mind of buckskin and fierce agility. I could not decide which aspect of him was more surprising than another and stood frozen in my bewilderment. 

His hand rose slowly, as though he was giving me time to object, and I watched in fascination as he laid his palm upon my shoulder. For a brief instant, I could feel a faint weight there, and then we watched his hand slide through my shoulder and away from my body.

He made a surprised "Hm!" noise. 

"Indeed," I said.

His lips twisted into a sardonic smirk. "Good evening, Mrs. Davenport." His voice was soft but commanding, and he spoke with the flat tones I had heard in others from the Americas. 

I had been overcome long enough. I set the candlestick on a side table and my hands on my hips. "You know my name, and yet I remain at a loss," I told him, and my own voice was strong and clear. "So I repeat my earlier question. Who are you?"

His smile grew broader, and there was more than the hint of wildness there. "I, my lady, am the rightful Lord Burleigh. And I am here for revenge."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a brief instance of gaslighting.

I stared wordlessly at the apparition before me, even as my mind rebelled against the very idea of apparitions. 

Because, reader, he was, unmistakably, otherworldly, bringing to mind the creations of Mrs. Radcliffe and Le Fanu. I indulged in such fanciful books with pleasure, but I had never before admitted their subjects to the realm of possibility. 

He was also dressed in the peak of English gentlemen's fashion. Unlike many other men, however, whose tailor's work hid various weaknesses of frame, his waistcoat and jacket ebulliently accentuated the strength in his broad shoulders and chest. The cravat at my eye level was pristine. He was of average height for a man, but the top of my head would still tuck neatly under his chin. My eyes widened as the thought flitted through my consciousness, and I slid a step away from him to regain my equilibrium. 

"Have I shocked your sensibilities so much then?" he asked in a tone which implied he had little care for the answer. And yet there was something in his eyes which betrayed him. He was pleased, I thought, that I was calm and pleased that we were speaking.

I was unsure of the source of my calm. After all, this stranger had entered my bedchamber uninvited, a place even my husband had only visited when wishing relations with me. He spoke of revenge. But he had also not threatened me directly in any way. He had been quietly reading my book when I stumbled upon him, and he seemed as intrigued by my ability to see him as I did. 

I contemplated his impossibility for another moment, and then I shrugged. Perhaps my short time in this house of mysteries had altered me more than I knew. Until I had more facts, I had to accept, at least temporarily, the hypothesis that my conception of the universe was more limited than I had even guessed. And the only way to satisfy the tingling sensation of intrigue I felt coursing through me was further investigation. 

"We had better sit down so you can tell me everything," I said. Having been transported so far beyond the realm of propriety or science, this seemed the only reasonable course of action. 

He lifted a hand to tug on his ear then indicated I should have my usual seat, the one he had just vacated. As I sat, he settled himself into the chair across from me. I tried to be surreptitious in my study of him and how he was sitting at all, but a smirk sprang to his lips. "We can get to that," he said. He was silent for a moment, and then he added, "I do not know where to even begin."

"Are you dead?" I asked, as this was the question foremost in my mind.

"Yes. No. It is complicated," he responded.

"So it would seem," I said. "Start there."

"I was murdered while I was on a spirit quest," he told me bluntly. "I was declared dead and my body was taken to the family mausoleum." He tilted his head to indicate the direction of the grey stone edifice I had seen on my drive into the grounds. "I assume, as I am still … here," he gestured broadly at himself, "that because my body and my spirit were separated at the time, death was not able to come for me as she normally would." 

Every word he spoke would have been sufficient for him or me or both of us together to be admitted to Bedlam. And yet I could sense no madness in him. Instead, he exuded deep anger and utter rationality. "A spirit quest?" I finally asked, needing to know more, needing to hear all. 

"A practice of my people. You, perhaps, would call it the astral plane."

"Before I met you, I would, perhaps, have called it poppycock." The sharp words escaped my mouth before I could stop them. My eyes flew to his, an apology forming on my tongue.

But his full lips twitched in another abbreviated smile, like he was out of practice. "And now?"

"It is difficult to deny the evidence when it is seated before me." 

His large hands, resting on the arms of the chair, seemed to relax, and he sketched a pattern in the upholstery with a long finger. When I looked back into his face, he was watching me, waiting for me. "I am not asking you to accept my beliefs, but I appreciate that you are willing to consider them nonetheless."

I studied him in return, quite openly. It was a handsome face, beautiful even, and it was not the countenance of a mad man. My mind still swirled with questions and confusion, but I tried to retain my sense. "You said you were here for revenge. Who murdered you?"

He was silent for a long minute before he spoke, as if trying to take my measure. "Lord Burleigh."

I opened my mouth in automatic protest, but no words escaped me. I would certainly not have called my employer a murderer, but there was no denying he was not like other men I had met either. I remembered my apparition's first words to me. "Because he wanted your title?"

"Yes. My existence was a surprise to him, and I stood in the way of his ambitions." 

I inclined my head, silently bidding him to continue.

"The genealogical explanation is straightforward enough," he said. "Burleigh is my younger cousin. In his youth, our grandfather travelled to the Americas, where he met and married my grandmother. She bore him a son, Kolopok, but she died as a result of childbirth. In his grief, my grandfather returned home, leaving Kolopok with our people. The child eventually married, and is my father. Meanwhile, Grandfather remarried in England. His second wife also bore him a son, et cetera, et cetera. Burleigh's father was killed at Waterloo, so he was raised here by Grandfather, fully expecting to inherit the title one day. I believe the reading of the will gave him quite a shock." 

"I would imagine so," I murmured.

"It took months for word of Grandfather's death to reach me in Boston and for me to travel here. I was staying at a coaching house in the village, and I had an appointment to meet with Burleigh and the family solicitor here the next morning. Burleigh stole into my room and struck me upon the head. He would never have been able to sneak up on me if I had not been on a quest." His dark eyes flashed with rage, and his fingers rose to trail across the spot as he remembered. 

Something inside of me settled and then was released. The utter banality of his explanation was convincing. I stood and approached him. He tilted his head slightly, his long hair falling to the side. As I somehow expected, there was more evidence. "You bear the scar of an attack upon your head. It is unsightly. Jagged but long healed over." Perplexed, I traced a finger along the mark, feeling only air.

He nodded. "I've seen it on my body in the mausoleum. I can feel it here." His hand came up again, and his fingers passed through mine as they followed the same path. As before, there was a momentary sense of connection, and his head turned so he could meet my gaze.

Heat flooded through me, and that frightened me in a way nothing else I had encountered in this house had so far. I quickly cast my eyes downward and returned to my seat, returned to practicality. "Your body has not decayed?" My voice reflected the absurdity of my question, and he chuckled.

"No. I cannot explain it but other than the scar, I look the same as the day I arrived here." 

"And your revenge? Are you the reason the windows crash and the piano plays by itself and my book is always open when I am sure I closed it?"

"Some revenge, is it not?" he said bitterly. "My death was blamed on ruffians or highwaymen. Burleigh has my house and my title, and all I can do is rattle his cage a bit."

"It is succeeding well enough, I think," I said. "His mood is mercurial, and he is often distracted." I thought for a moment of fresh horrors. "Did he kill his wife as well?" 

"No. His wife undoubtedly died of natural causes. The local doctor is a man of unimpeachable character, and he was present at the time of her passing, but Lord Burleigh encourages these flights of fancy to deflect from my presence. Not that he knows it is me." His face darkened. "The worst part is that he has no consideration for his children, who continue to miss their mother. Blackguard." 

"How is that different from what you inflict upon him?" I burst out, hurting for two children caught in the middle. 

"He is a grown man who has committed cold-blooded murder in order to achieve his goals. He deserves everything I can do to him. The children do not."

We glared at each other. His anger, directed now at me, was almost a physical thing. I felt my chest tighten, and how could someone I just met affect me so? Then through the whirl of my thoughts came clarity: our anger was simply a reflection of itself. Our outlook was the same. 

I sat back in my seat. "Why have you not plainly revealed yourself and discredited him?"

He leaned forward. "Because until this evening, no one has been able to see me. I can interact with the world on a limited scale, but I cannot be perceived by it."

"Oh," fell from my lips. "Then why am I able to see you to some degree?"

"I have no idea," he said. "I was as confounded as you were." His lips stretched into a grin and, oh my heavens, he had dimples. "A candlestick? Truly?" he asked. 

"We use the tools we have at hand," I told him haughtily, but I could not hold my composure for long. A laugh escaped me, and I could not remember the last time I had really laughed. The smile faded from my lips, and I saw his fall in response.

"You have listened to my story with admirable patience and fortitude, Mrs. Davenport," he said. "I suppose the only question that remains is whether or not you're going to stand in my way."

The candles had burned low while we conversed. I sat and thought of all he had told me, his incredible story. Despite the fact that he had upended my entire understanding, I wanted to believe him, wanted this extraordinary thing to be true. Shadows flickered faintly across the walls. Finally I said, "You may be a consummate liar, but I read veracity in your face. Let me see this house, see Lord Burleigh, in the light of day and decide."

He nodded and stood. "Take your time. I'll still be here." He bowed to me and started toward the door of my chamber.

I turned so I could watch him go. "What is your name, sir?"

"My name is Chakotay," he said and walked through the closed door.

* * *

I arose the next morning at my usual early hour and descended the stairs. I was often awake long before Lord Burleigh or the children, so the kitchen had begun to prepare a small breakfast for me to enjoy alone. I served myself a bowl of hot porridge, fresh toast, and a saucer of strong black coffee. Mrs. Templeton had looked askance at my request for the drink my first morning, but she looked askance at everything I did, so I did not let it bother me.

I was buttering my toast when a noise outside caught my attention. It sounded like the pounding of hooves. I knew Lord Burleigh was unlikely to be up, and we were expecting no visitors, so I went to the window to investigate. The dining room overlooked the stables, and I saw a black charger gallop across the field. On his back, no saddle or reins to be seen and jacket left who-knows-where, sat Chakotay, his long hair a match for the horse's mane. Even from this distance, I could see the white flash of his teeth as he laughed in enjoyment. 

I could not help but laugh in response. I plucked my toast from the plate and leaned against the sill to watch. How he had connected with the animal in his largely incorporeal state, I did not know, but it was a sight to behold. He was a magnificent rider, effortlessly commanding the horse to move and turn. I lost track of time. My breakfast was long gone, and my coffee cooled. 

"Lancelot! Father! Father! Lancelot is loose in the back field!" I heard Beatrice's cry from down the hall. I rapidly placed my dish back on the table and saw Lord Burleigh dash past the open door, a robe thrown hastily over his nightgown. I reached the parlor in time for Beatrice, her face plastered to the window glass, to say, "We have to help him!" 

Lord Burleigh stood at her side and looked out the window. I held my breath, anxious he might be able to see Chakotay too, but he ruffled his daughter's hair and said, "Not to worry, poppet. Isaiah will catch him again soon enough." I felt a small smile begin to curl my lips. Then he continued. "Lancelot was your mother's favorite horse, Beatrice. Do you remember?" Her face tilted up toward him, and he said, his tone somehow hypnotic, "She used to love to ride him early in the morning, just like this. Perhaps he is remembering her today. In fact, I can almost see her now. Can you?"

"Oh, I can, Father!" she cried after a moment. "I must tell Henry."

"Yes, I'm sure he'd like that," Lord Burleigh replied.

I stared in horror at his back. Fury bubbled up inside of me. How dare he use their mother's memory against his own children in such a way? He truly was a despicable man. 

I must have made some noise because he turned to me.

"Ah, Mrs. Davenport, good morning." He seemed to think I had just entered the room. "Mrs. Davenport, are you unwell? You look … unsettled."

I bit my tongue to choke down my anger. It would not do to lose my temper with this man. "Yes," I lied. "I … am not feeling myself."

"You must return to your room, rest for the day," he said, walking up to me, and placing my hand on his arm. "Let me walk you there." He turned back to the window. "Beatrice, tell Nanny that she needs to look after you and Henry today."

"Yes, Father." She danced past us, giving me a puzzled look as she went.

"Now, what seems to be ailing you, Mrs. Davenport?" my employer asked, all solicitude. 

"Oh, I …" I frantically tried to think of an answer through the haze of my indignation. Mark would have to forgive me. "Some days, I am overwhelmed with memories of my lost husband, and —"

"— say no more," he interrupted. "I know your loss is as fresh as mine. "Please, take the day to remember him in private."

"Thank you, Your Grace," I was able to say. We walked the rest of the way to my chamber in silence. 

At my door, I started to remove my hand from his arm when he reached over and lifted it to his mouth. His warm breath spread across my skin, and his lips brushed my knuckles. "We will see you tomorrow, Mrs. Davenport."

I nodded and slipped briskly into my room so he could not see the expressions flitting rapidly across my face. I walked quickly to my bed and threw myself upon it, muffling a scream of frustration into my pillow. I had seen his mood swings, I had heard Chakotay's story, and yet I somehow thought Lord Burleigh was perhaps not the villain he appeared to be. But I was wrong. Any man that would purposefully plant seeds of doubt in his own child's mind was not be trusted.

I threw myself back off the bed and began pacing, my agitation building as I thought again of what I had witnessed. 

A jolt of electricity coursed down my arm. "Mrs. Davenport!" I heard Chakotay say. "What has happened?" His hands gripped me, the touch lingering a moment before dissipating, and I turned to face him. "Mrs. Templeton was whispering you were shirking your responsibilities." 

"Burleigh!" I broke out. "He used you, that captivating moment of you riding, and he twisted it to his own purposes. To hurt his own daughter."

"Shh," he soothed. "Sit and you can tell me the whole story. He saw me riding?"

I allowed him to guide me to my chair. "Not you," I said as I sat. "But they saw Lancelot, alone in the field." The details spilled out from me. "You should have heard him. He was purposefully filling her head with fantasies."

Chakotay's head sank into his hands. "I didn't know … I didn't think anyone would be up yet. I just …"

"You just?" I prompted.

"I have spent the last months believing I was trapped here alone for eternity." He gave me a shy smile. "I just wanted to celebrate a bit. You seeing me. Listening to me." 

That smile tore at my heart. "Damn that man!" I burst out. To my surprise, Chakotay snickered. "Oh, I suppose women of your acquaintance do not swear, Mr. Chakotay?"

"They do," he said, still smiling. "Just usually at me, not on my behalf." 

Our eyes met, and we sobered again. 

"I'm not sure I believed you entirely before," I confessed. "But I do now. How can I help?"

He sat back in his chair, slumping under an invisible weight. "I do not know. It cannot continue like this. The children cannot be hurt anymore." His hand raked across his face. "What was I trying to accomplish anyway? I cannot have my life back. What good does unnerving him a little do?"

"It reminds him of his sins," I said. "It pricks his conscience."

"Not that he has one, it seems." The palpable anger I always sensed in him was receding in the face of Burleigh's most recent actions. But he needed a purpose, and Burleigh still needed to be brought to justice … somehow.

"I think we need to come together," I said. Chakotay's face turned toward me, interest lighting up his eyes. "Your options were limited before, but now I am here too."

The look that spread across his face could only be described as wicked. "Go on."

I was bemused to feel a blush creep across my cheeks. "I meant, if we join forces, perhaps we can come up with a solution, something he cannot attribute to rumors about his late wife."

A knock at my door startled both of us.

"Mrs. Davenport, I have brought you some tea." The voice of Mrs. Templeton floated through the door. 

Chakotay stood and darted into my dressing room. I smoothed my hands down my dress and went to open the door.

"Thank you, Mrs. Templeton — "

I was pushed purposefully back into the room as she barreled in with the tray. Her eyes darted around the room in obvious curiosity. "With whom were you speaking just now, Mrs. Davenport?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She harrumphed, seeing no one. "Oh, nothing. I thought I heard you talking with someone. But that is ridiculous, of course."

Wretched woman. "Oh, that was me. I got into the unfortunate habit of talking to myself when I am thinking of my husband," I said.

Her thin lips narrowed even further. "As long as you don't get in the habit of doing that in front of the children," she admonished.

"Of course not. Thank you for the tea." I pointedly pushed her back out of the room in the same way she had entered it. "Please tell Cook thank you as well."

Having gotten rid of her again, I turned back to the room. "You can come out now," I said softly.

Chakotay poked his head out of the dressing room. "Has the dragon gone back to her lair?"

"For now anyway. Why on earth did you hide?"

"We still don't know why you can see me. I was worried it might have advanced more generally too."

"A wise precaution. And we do not know when she'll be back again today. For now, I think you had better leave," I said, trying to hide my unexpected disappointment.

"Back to the fourth floor it is," he said. He hesitated, and then he said, "May I join you on your walk tomorrow morning?"

I could not stop my smile. "I'd like that."

"As would I. I'll see you then. Good day, Mrs. Davenport."

"Good day, Mr. Chakotay."


	3. Chapter 3

I hurried through my breakfast the next morning, eager to make my way onto the moors. I had to be honest with myself; it was not the prospect of a walk that sped my steps, but the knowledge I should soon see Chakotay again. In a few short days, my very understanding of the world had been upended. He seemed, at first, to represent everything I had fought against my entire life, but all I felt now was wonder. I had lived so much of my life in one small corner of the globe — a village, some houses, a little company — and now there was this glorious awareness that the universe was even more vast and mysterious than I had ever dreamed. It was invigorating. 

"The sunshine suits you. As does that smile."

The warmth of his compliment spread through me, and I turned to find Chakotay seated on the stump of an ancient oak. I had known I would find him beyond view of the house.

"How _are_ you able to sit like that?" At my impulsive question, his head dipped down and a rich laugh escaped his throat. 

"Falling through solid earth is not a pleasant sensation. Learning to stay firm on surfaces is a lesson quickly learned." Despite his light tone, I could tell those early sensations haunted him still. I had to stifle a sudden urge to sit beside him, to run my hand across his shoulder in empathy. 

But if he had learned to control it to that degree … "Show me," I challenged instead.

His eyebrows rose. He stood to his feet and paced toward me, much like that first night, but this time he stopped several feet away. "Watch."

He began sinking, his boots slipping silently into the ground. He reached knee height and stopped, his dancing eyes meeting mine. 

I hurried toward him and knelt on the ground mere inches from him, heedless of my gown. There was earth, then there was him. The distinction between the two was clear, even though he himself retained the translucence I had seen in my room during our first two encounters. It was astonishing. "Sir Issac Newton must be spinning in his grave, wishing he could be here." I glanced up at him, wanting to share my excitement.

Chakotay's dark eyes were nearly black, no distinction between pupil and iris. His hand hovered at my shoulder, the fingers stretched out as if to brush my hair.

My lips parted, and I felt myself leaning toward his hand.

I scrambled to my feet.

"Mrs. Davenport —" he began, as I puffed out, "I'm so sorry —"

We broke off at the same time. 

"No, please —" Our voices overlapped again. 

His dimples broke the tension. "Give a man some warning next time, please, Mrs. Davenport," he said.

"I think we just made another scientific discovery about your condition," I returned tartly.

"To the journals, quick!" 

I chuckled at his wry tone. "You promised me a walk, Mr. Chakotay?"

He swept his arm out, indicating I should lead the way.

I chose a path with alacrity, but inside I was not so composed. Like many women, my experience with men was limited to the few who travelled in my confined circle. Even my husband I had known since childhood. I had cared for Mark deeply, and always thought our marriage a fulfilling one, but my body's responses to this stranger, the instinctual pull I felt toward him confused me. It was beyond anything I had experienced before, and he seemed to feel it too. 

But this was a relationship without a future. We had only been brought together because he had been so cruelly taken from this world. Perhaps I could help him continue that journey to peace. "There must be some evidence to support your story," I said. "A liveryman or barmaid who saw Burleigh enter the inn that night." 

It was only after I had spoken I realized how abrupt my change in subject must have been to him, but he merely glanced at me with polite inquiry.

"What would that accomplish?"

For a man of such strong feelings, I was astonished by his seeming ability to turn them off at will too. In contrast, my own temper was flaring. "Burleigh must be brought to justice!" 

"I would dearly love to see that, but again: what would it accomplish? He has his title, I cannot get it back."

"Henry would succeed to the title. He is young, so he can still be trained. Not turn out like his father."

"That boy certainly needs some training, yes."

I snickered. "He is miserable to be around, isn't he?"

His grin was rueful. "No worse than many other lads of his station."

"Perhaps not." I was not going to be distracted. "Let me at least ask a few questions when next I am in the village. See if anyone remembers the night you were killed."

Chakotay came to a stop. We were on a slight incline, so he stood even taller above me than he usually did. He stared off at the horizon for a quiet minute. His long black hair stirred in the light morning breeze, and I was reminded of the ravens that protect the Tower, stalwart and silent omens. Finally, he looked back at me. My eyes had never left his face. 

"Ask your questions. I may receive no benefit, but others might."

I nodded. Words seemed inadequate. We soon returned to the house, Chakotay leaving me with a courtly bow before we came into view. 

As I expected, the house was quiet again that day. There were no mysterious noises from the fourth floor, no whispers in the hallways. The children were model students during our morning session, and Mrs. Templeton was only rude to me, not very rude.

The air had shifted, and so perhaps had the winds of fortune. 

* * *

My days were soon divided into two distinct segments: the time I spent teaching the children and gracing Lord Burleigh's supper table and the time I spent conversing with Chakotay. He made himself scarce the first few days in case others could now also see him, but he too had a curious nature. He began first tentatively then boldly to walk again about the house. He joined us for lessons in the schoolroom. He inspected Cook making luncheon. He accompanied Mrs. Templeton on her duties. I alone could see him. 

He began joining me in my chamber each evening so we could continue the conversations we started on our morning walks.

"You tossed a man into the harbor for trying to overcharge you?" I wheezed out, barely able to breathe through my laughter as he recounted a particularly amusing story one night.

"You only have to do it once," he chuckled, "and everyone receives the message."

I wiped at my eyes. "I should have liked to see that."

"It was my first month in town. The rumors about 'the savage from the West' ran amok after that." The bitterness and anger that had faded in recent days were back in his voice.

"How badly did they treat you?" I asked hesitantly.

"Bad enough." He inhaled sharply, then again more slowly. "Are you sure you want to hear about these things?"

"If you're willing to tell me."

"My father and I never saw eye-to-eye. Despite his mixed heritage, he stayed close to the old ways, wanting nothing to do with the settlers and cities springing up. I was the opposite. I saw innovation and exploration and a chance to prove myself. He always said I was contrary. I left home when I was seventeen after saying many things I have come to regret. Eventually I found someone to sponsor me, to help me get into college. I studied the science of economics. I got a job working for a shipping company in Boston." He quirked a grin at me. "Made myself a reputation in town right away. Most made it clear they would never accept me. But some of them learned to respect me. Absent that, I made sure they feared me."

He glanced up and caught the look on my face. "These are old wounds, Mrs. Davenport. Long healed over." I thought of his scar, another old wound long healed over that never needed to have been an injury at all. 

He was silent for several minutes, watching the flames crackle in the fireplace. Just when I thought he had decided to stop, he continued. "I was well on my way to becoming a captain of industry when I received word my father had died."

I couldn't help the noise that rose in my throat, a keening that threw me back to the days after I lost my own father.

I knew what would have been my deepest regret. "Had you been able to reconcile?" 

"No. We had not spoken in many years." He ran a finger along the tattoo at his brow. "I took his mark. I let my hair grow long again. I have tried to honor him since, but it does not change the fact that he is gone." 

"How did it happen?"

"He and many of our people died because of a disease brought to them by the pioneering White men." 

It was a familiar tale, all the more frightening because it was an event of such non-importance to so many. The conquistadors and the colonists claimed they were exploring uncharted lands, but the unvarnished truth was they were simply lands uncharted by Europeans. In the face of "progress", greed, and wilful ignorance, whole peoples were overcome.

Impulsively, I reached out, my hand grasping his. I felt it turn, clutch mine. Fade.

"Chakotay …" I hesitated. "Will you call me Kathryn?"

He was nonplussed. "I was under the impression your name was Lucille."

"I was christened Lucille Kathryn Janeway. My family has always called me Kathryn, but since my husband died and I left my sister's, I have not heard that name pass anyone's lips. It did not seem a name I wished to share with strangers."

He bowed his head, obviously pleased I had chosen to bestow this intimacy. "I am glad we are no longer strangers, then." 

* * *

My afternoon off came around again soon enough, and I made it known I was going into the village on my walk. I went straight to the coaching house where Chakotay had died. The barmaid had served me tea several times and knew I lived in the great house. She was also an inveterate gossip, something which normally caused me to grit my teeth. Alas, she could offer no assistance. In fact, Lord Burleigh was well known to avoid this inn, a fact which caused great resentment among the local villagers. The stable boy and the shopgirl at the millinery both confirmed this frustrating detail. 

I turned my feet back toward the house, irritated and discouraged by my lack of success. Of course, I had told myself it should not be a straightforward thing to prove Chakotay's story but … somehow, I had hoped it would be easy after all. 

It was in this frame of mind that I sat down to supper with Lord Burleigh that evening. He was in his rare expansive mood, and his good humor irked me. When he made a passing remark about his late wife, I felt the strong desire to test him wash over me.

"It must have been so difficult for you, to lose your wife so soon after your grandfather and your cousin," I said as sympathetically as I could.

"My cousin?" Lord Burleigh said. "Who told you about —" He cut himself off.

"Someone in the village mentioned him today," I said. "To have found family like that, only to lose him again so abruptly. I am sorry, Your Grace." 

"Yes. Well, yes. It was … difficult," he said in fits and starts. He seemed to be trying not to clench his jaw. "The world is a cruel place," he finally bit out.

Needing to be sure, I laid my hand on his arm as an expression of sympathy. His forearm jerked under me, as though I had shocked him. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I …"

He laid his hand upon mine, holding it in place. "No, Mrs. Davenport. It is my fault. I appreciate your kind words. It has been a difficult few months." He lifted his gaze to mine, and I saw hurt reflected in his expression, and yet … I _knew_ , it was an act. He was showing me what he thought I wanted to see. Frustration glinted behind his eyes, and I was certain I was in the presence of a man who would do anything to get his own way. 

Later, in my chamber, I told Chakotay of my findings. I could tell he was also disappointed, but I was astonished to hear his next words.

"I do not think he was originally a bad man. But he was a man for whom life had always gone his way, and I suddenly came along to stand in the way of his expectations and ambitions." Then, "He has been re-reading _Hamlet_ much of late."

I knew immediately what he meant. "'My words fly up, my thoughts remain below ….'"

"Precisely."

"While I appreciate you highlighting the moral nuances of these circumstances, I believe we must remember that Claudius still received his just desserts in the end."

Chakotay's teeth flashed. "Would you like to hand him the poisoned cup or shall I?"

* * *

Suspicions and certainties aside, Chakotay and I were not the ones who needed convincing in the end. I required proof a magistrate would accept. As the weeks passed, I made no progress on that front. My brief opportunities to visit the village were not enough to build rapport with people or ask the right questions without suspicion. Progress was slow, and patience was not among my virtues.

Lord Burleigh often kept me downstairs talking with him until late in the evening. It tested what patience I had to be held to his presence when I could be in my room with Chakotay, but the deception was necessary.

It was with a sigh of relief that I finally entered my chamber one night and found Chakotay where he had been for the past several days: engrossed in my manuscript. It pleased me that he showed such an interest in it. 

"Why is your husband's name on this book's title page, when it is clearly your work and not his?"

At his abrupt question, it felt as if all air had been sucked from the room.

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, trying for nonchalance. "Mark dictated the manuscript to me in his last days, and I am simply finishing the editing before sending it to his publisher."

"Kathryn," he growled.

My belly tightened at the sound. I should have been worried that he had uncovered my secret, but I was distracted by the pleasant sensations his voice had on various parts of my anatomy.

He continued, unaware of my turmoil. "These are not the corrections of an editor. You have altered whole experiments in places, recorded new hypotheses." I sank into my chair. "And besides," he added, reaching out to brush his fingertips across the back of my hand, "these delicate fingers bear the burns and scars of years of scientific work. Do not insult me by continuing to pretend you were your husband's assistant." 

"No, I will not insult you like that, Chakotay." I felt his fingertips drift back and forth across my knuckles, as though silently instilling in me the power to continue. "Mark did have a scientific mind. He was curious about the world around him. It is one of the things that drew us together. But while he was blessed with curiosity, he lacked some of the depth of understanding required for this type of work. And as a woman, I had no standing to formally study it myself." My voice was harsh, bitter, but I couldn't hold back the old resentment. It was a relief to finally say it aloud. "So we hatched our plan: I should pretend to be his assistant rather than vice versa, and we would publish my findings under his name. It was not perfect, but it gave me an outlet and him the pretence of a profession." 

Chakotay's finger made another pass, back and forth. My skin tingled everywhere he touched me and not for the first time, I wished he — we — were not stuck in this limbo. 

"As a man, I cannot pretend that I understand the feelings and circumstances that led you to make that decision," he said softly. "But as another outsider, I hope you know that you have my support. Whatever it is worth."

Tears sprang to my eyes. I had been blessed to have a father and a husband who supported me, despite the conventions of society, and it seemed I had found another such man. I laid my free hand on his cheek. His eyes widened, darkened, and I stroked my thumb across that immaculate cheekbone before the sensation of our connection could fade. "It is worth the world to me, Chakotay. Thank you." 

"Do you have a copy of your husband's contract? For the book?" We sat, faces close together, hands touching, and that was his question. I started to pull back, and he smiled. "This is important, Kathryn. I promise."

I looked into his eyes. He was determined. Mischievous.

I sat, unaccountably nervous, as he reviewed the document. He read it once, then again. Finally, he set it aside. "I am no solicitor, of course, but I have read my share of contracts. In my opinion, there is no reason you should still feel obligated to submit your manuscript for publication under your husband's name." 

"What?"

His smile stretched into that look of fierce beauty I had come to crave. "In fact, I think you should seek out a new publisher entirely and publish it for yourself. 'K. Janeway' has a ring to it, does it not?

"What?"

Chakotay tapped the paper on which all my hopes rested. "It is a well-drafted document, except on one point. It specifies 'a work of a scientific nature penned by Mark Davenport.' No specific title or subject is referenced, and there is no mention whatsoever of you."

I nodded. "Mark had thought it best to conceal my involvement. To the publisher, I was only his wife. I planned to maintain the pretence when I submitted the manuscript. And I … had not settled on a title yet."

"Typically, contractual obligations end at death. Forgive me for speaking bluntly —" I waved away his formalities. "But — "

"But Mark was the only named party, and he is dead, _ergo_ , the contract is no longer binding." I finished his sentence in a rush. Why had I never made that connection? "How _absolutely_ foolish of me," I breathed. 

"Not foolish," he assured me. "Merely set on your course."

I sat back in my chair. "Well."

"You would not be the first woman to publish her book under a _nom de plume_. So your family and friends might know. Would they not support you? And what would the world at large know of such an author?"

I leapt to my feet and began pacing the room. Chakotay was correct. My family would support me. And I no longer had to provide an explanation for my husband's activities. The only thing binding me to that contract was an ethical obligation, which I had to believe Mark would have been the first to release me from. Why should I not make the attempt?

In my excitement, I reached out my hands and pulled Chakotay to his feet. The momentum propelled him into me, and his arms went around me to steady us. 

"Thank you," I breathed and then realized what was happening, what had been happening all night. His touch was still solid. 

We gaped at each other. Through my corset, I felt his hands curve about my waist, pull me toward him. I felt his … then, just as swiftly, the feeling was gone again, although I could see his shadowy wrists and fingers against the fabric of my gown.

"It is lasting longer," I whispered. "Maybe if we concentrate ...."

Carefully, I lifted my hand and placed it on his chest, focusing on the action, focusing on where my skin would meet his jacket. His own hand came to rest on mine just as carefully. 

"One … two … three …" Chakotay counted out the seconds of our connection. 

"Again," I said as soon as the sensation faded. 

"Yes, ma'am."

My fingers spent four seconds judging the breadth of his biceps, then seven seconds tracing through the silky strands of his hair. He countered with his lips tracing the outline of my ear, the length of my neck, for nine seconds. Or was it twelve? I was somewhat distracted from my counting during that experiment, I must report.

But our most successful attempt was twenty-two glorious seconds of his lips on mine. I knew by then his touch was neither warm nor cold, and that it spread a sensation akin to the bubble of champagne across my skin whenever we came in contact. But I could not have guessed how it would feel to have his mouth brush against mine. Retreat. Lick and nip. 

Greedy, worried we might somehow use up our good fortune, I deepened the kiss. Chakotay responded by kneading my backside firmly, and, oh yes, I could feel his manhood pressing hard into my belly as our mouths explored each other. His hands drifted lower, clutched into the fabric of my skirts, and I felt the hem of my dress begin to drag up my legs.

It was an ecstasy of sensation, and I gave an involuntary gasp, separating us. 

We both stood panting, triumphant in our success. 

"I knew you were the scientist," he said at last. 

* * *

Reader, I am sure you can imagine the events of the next few days. Chakotay and I found every opportunity to investigate this newfound ability to connect physically. Not only with kisses, although we were certainly studious on that front, but more generally as well. His hand on my elbow as we traversed uneven ground and descended stiles. Catching me as my heel caught on the edge of a carpet. My arm around his waist and my head on his shoulder as he read aloud to me.

One evening after several days of this, agreeable as it was, I found myself sinking gratefully down into the warm bath that had been brought up to my room. I could find no rational explanation for any of it, but then again, I still had no rational explanation for his presence at all. And he knew of no similar stories from his oral history. We were undeniably in uncharted territory, but my mind still sought reason. 

"Kathryn?" Chakotay's soft voice in the next room startled me, and I let out a gasp. In my contemplation, I had lost all track of time. Before I could duck down into the water or cover myself, he entered my dressing chamber.

For a moment, we were frozen in disbelief, staring at each other. "I am so sorry." He spun around, but not before I saw a look of such hunger cross his face. "I'll … come back later." 

"Wait. Chakotay." My voice was almost frantic. I did not want him to leave. I wanted … "Please stay." 

He did not turn around. "If I stay, this will not end with mere kisses tonight."

Was I ready for that step? Was that why I had lingered so long in my bath this evening? 

"I know."

I watched the tension drain from his shoulders, saw them resettle with firmness. As he turned, he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, and they shimmered faintly as he laid them aside. Then he began rolling the sleeves of his linen shirt up to the elbows. 

Mark had done that on occasion, when the weather was warm or he was assisting me with an experiment, but I cannot remember the sight of his bared forearms ever affecting me the way Chakotay's were now. His arms were only lightly dusted with hair. The muscles were well-developed under the bronze skin. Even in the warmth of the water, I could feel my nipples tighten. 

Chakotay settled himself on the floor beside the bath, his left arm up on the edge, and looked into my face.

"Have you …" I swallowed. "Have you done this before?"

"Joined a woman as she bathed, do you mean?" His hand hovered above the water by my head, the tip of his fingers nearly breaking the surface. 

"Yes."

"A time or two."

"Oh."

He went very still. "Does that bother you?" 

"No. I do not know." 

"I am going to guess that your husband never helped you bathe?"

"No." Until this moment, it had never occurred to me that he might have done so either. 

Chakotay nodded. "I do not think that is unusual in many marriages."

I was beginning to realize how much more I still had to learn. And how much I _wanted_ to learn with him. I reached across and tugged his hand down to the water's surface. "But you have done it." 

Chakotay made small whirls in the water. "There are fewer restrictions placed on men in this arena. We have the latitude and freedom to explore as we wish. In some circles, it is an aberration if we do not." Loop. Glide. He was not yet touching me, but silently drifting, waiting. "And there are many women — wives in unhappy marriages, widows — who have found that freedom too. It would be my honor to help you pursue this yourself if that is what you would wish."

I wanted him to understand what my experience had been. I lifted my eyes to his. "Mark was a very kind and tender lover." _Lover_. I had never said that word aloud before, not in these circumstances. 

The corner of Chakotay's mouth lifted, but there was no mockery in his countenance, just warm regard. "Those are both excellent qualities," he said. "But there is more to lovemaking than that. Passion. Generosity. Hunger. Exploration." His voice held rich promise.

I wanted that. Oh heavens, I wanted that. I had on several occasions with Mark experienced the sensation the French call _la petite mort_ , but I had always suspected from my surreptitious reading that this was something men and women could experience more than occasionally. 

I knew my decision. "Please teach me," I requested, and I was rewarded with his pointer finger gently tracing the upper slope of my breast where it curved above the water line. I relaxed back against the edge of the tub. One finger became two. My breath came out in a faint pant. Then Chakotay's palm, not just his fingertips, was on my breast. He squeezed lightly, and the sensation flew straight to my core. Suddenly, he pinched my left nipple. Before I could react, he was moving again in soothing motions. He shifted his body, turning in toward the tub, and while his left hand continued to trace and caress my breasts, one then the other, his right hand snuck into my hair, still pulled up into its coiffure. His thumb massaged a spot at the base of my skull where I had not even realized tension sat. My eyes drifted closed. 

And so I only felt his hand leave my breasts. I whimpered in loss, but then felt his palm drift further down, across my belly. My legs fell open. I am not sure it was even consciously done, but he made a noise of approval. Then he was touching me there, the broad tips of his fingers spreading the curls.

His low voice kissed my ear. "This is quite the loveliest quim I have ever seen, Kathryn. Plump and pink beneath its protective fur. Is it ready for me? Ready for my fingers? My cock?" 

Some part of my brain said I should have been shocked. My husband had never spoken to me like this. But I loved the sound of those words falling from his lips, loved the images he was conjuring in my mind. Those fingertips skimmed and charted as he talked, and I moved restlessly. 

"More," I whispered. 

I felt his hand nestle between my legs, two fingers setting off a cascade of sensations as they traversed the bundle of nerves I sometimes explored myself. Those fingers circled my entrance and then plunged inside me. 

My hips lifted off the bottom of the tub. It had been so long, and his fingers were so thick. 

"That's right," he rasped. "That's good. Move with me." My hips haltingly started, matched his rhythm and movement. Water sloshed against the side of the tub, and I was sure his shirt would be soaked. His thumb spiraled and pressed. 

"Touch yourself," he commanded, and my eyes flew open. His own eyes were feral. "Where my thumb is. Touch yourself."

Tentatively, I slid my hand down my waist. My fingers, smaller than his, reached the spot he had set alight. I wanted to look down, to see our fingers together touching my ... my quim. But I could not break our gaze. A third fingertip slid inside me. My hand spasmed, tapped against those nerves. I felt my legs stiffen and then my body was jerking, I was gasping, and I fell, limp, back into the water.

So easy. He had so easily wrung from me _la petite mort_.

"My beautiful Kathryn," Chakotay said. "This is just the beginning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Mark for the character assassination


	4. Chapter 4

It was a beguiling idyll, this time Chakotay and I spent together, exploring each other and the bounds of our little world, but we could not ignore the outside forever. The longer the house remained quiet and free of mysteries, the more uneasy Lord Burleigh became. Rather than feeling more secure, the silence seemed to haunt him in even more terrifying ways. I watched the children shrink from him, and I found every excuse to keep them from his notice.

"We have to find proof." I had lost track of the number of times I had said those words, but we were no closer to having found some than when I started. "If only someone else could see you —" I stopped.

"Kathryn?"

"Chakotay, why can I see you? Why me and no one else?"

"Because of some connection between us," he said. "Because your mind was unconsciously open to possibilities." He was repeating our suppositions, the only explanation we could posit.

I nodded. "And it has gotten stronger, the more our bond grows. We have whole minutes together when we concentrate."

He waited patiently for me to continue. He knew how my mind worked by now.

"I know you have no stories of someone appearing whom death has not accepted. But what about two people who travel the spirit quest together? Whose bond has connected them in that way?"

I watched him think, remember. "Yes, there is one. It is not a story told by the men, but one shared by the wives." 

I snorted in irritation; it was not only Englishmen who dismissed their women, it seemed. 

He laughed. "You misunderstand. Those are the most sacred stories of all." 

Mollified, a little abashed that I had jumped to such a conclusion, I asked, "And they were able to meet together? They shared the same experience, not just a similar setting?"

"That is what the story tells us. Kathryn, what are you driving at?"

"I want you to teach me. I want for my spirit to find yours on the astral plane."

"For what purpose?"

"To see if I can bring you home." 

* * *

Chakotay was not certain my idea would work, but we agreed we must try. I was to act as an anchor, a conduit between worlds, so his spirit could find the path back to his body.

But there was one snag. 

"I need to drink _what_?"

"An hallucinogenic tea."

"I thought that was what you said. Why?"

"It will open your mind to the possibilities of the quest."

"And there is no other way?" As a scientist, I was familiar with the effects of such things, at least in theory. And the newspapers were increasingly full of the sensational tales of London's opium dens. 

"Not that we have discovered so far." He could sense my hesitation. "Kathryn, if you are not comfortable —"

"No, if this is what is required, I will do it." 

A lazy grin spread across his face. "Never let it be said I don't know how to show a lady a good time."

I couldn't help but kiss him. Then, my mind made up, I was ready for action. "How do we acquire such a thing? I would not know where to begin."

"I know of a man in London. I heard of him on the voyage over. You could write to him."

"That would take days. I am tired of waiting. What else? Surely supplies are not limited to the metropolis."

Chakotay was quiet in that way I knew meant he had something to say.

"What is it? Tell me."

He tugged on his ear. "I had some with me, in my bag, when I arrived."

"Why did you not say that to begin? What happened to it?"

"Burleigh keeps the parcel in his chamber, like some sort of trophy."

Not for the first time, I cursed my employer. "Of course he does. How would we know he is a villain if he did not do such a thing?"

Chakotay laughed and then sobered. "Kathryn —"

"Don't you 'Kathryn' me, Mr. Chakotay. You will create the distraction, and I shall sneak into his room and steal the tea."

It was, quite amazingly, as straightforward as that. I worried the entire time that Mrs. Templeton would come upon me, but Chakotay caused such a racket no one in the house was thinking of anything else.

And the next night … well, the next evening found us sneaking from the house long after everyone else had fallen asleep and making our way to the mausoleum. (I also stole that key, thank you.) 

* * *

It was disconcerting, to be standing inside the mausoleum, the only light cast by my feeble candle, and to see Chakotay both standing beside me and laying on the marble before me. As he had said, his body had not decayed in the least. He looked virile and solid. For the first time, I could see the true color of his cheeks. The exact flash of the silver in his hair.

"Why have you not been properly entombed?"

"The sexton was supposed to return and complete the task, but when he came across me days later without apparent change, he was too frightened to move me. He lied to Burleigh about it, and has been attending church faithfully every Sunday since."

"That's one way to save a man's soul." 

"And you think you have come up with another."

I stepped into his space, and his arms automatically went around me. "You have faith it will work, don't you, Chakotay?"

"I have faith in you, Kathryn. You'll lead me home."

I settled myself on the ground. Chakotay remained standing. 

I took a sip of rapidly-cooling tea. 

Another. 

The words he had taught me flowed off my tongue.

I listened to his soothing voice.

He was telling me to imagine myself in a place where I had been the most content. 

The most content.

I was in my room at the great house, in my armchair beside the fire. Chakotay's seat across from me was empty, but I could feel his presence all around me. Despite everything — Mrs. Templeton, and missing my family, and Lord Burleigh's sinister actions — it was here I had found that contentment and joy. Because of …

"Chakotay?" I called. "Where are you? Chakotay?"

Just when I thought he might not come, he appeared before me, in his usual chair. He blinked and then laughed.

"Well done, my love," he said.

"It really worked?"

"It seems so. Welcome to the astral plane, Kathryn."

I could not stop myself. "I thought there would be more smoke and diaphanous fabric."

"I have no objection to you wearing diaphanous fabric. Sheer. Filmy."

You will be pleased to know, dear reader, that a slap upon someone's knee in the astral plane feels much like a slap in real life.

"What now, Chakotay?"

"Lead me back to my body, I suppose."

This had been our working theory. That wherever we connected, I should lead him back to the mausoleum. He could visit there all he wanted in real life, of course, but try as he might, he could make no connection with himself there. Whatever Burleigh had done had severed that connection for him. But perhaps with me …

For the second time that night, we entered the marble edifice. I led him inside, straight up to where he lay. Still holding his ethereal hand, I reached out and grasped his hand of flesh and blood. 

I felt as if I had been struck by lighting. A heavy blow. The tea in my stomach roiled. With a cry, I sank down to my knees. 

I awoke to tender hands upon my face. I rested against a firm chest, gently rising and falling with each breath. 

* * *

The sun was already rising, scatters of blue and purple and grey streaking the sky, when we left the mausoleum. We stood along the dirt road leading to the house.

"You have the money? And the addresses you need?" I sounded like an anxious mother, but I could not help it. Chakotay was leaving me, going to find the magistrate and the family solicitor to present his case. 

I tucked my arms around his waist, between the linen of his shirt and the wool of his jacket. His chin rested on the top of my head. "I have the money. And the addresses. I'll be back as soon as I can."

I could never have imagined the simple, absolute joy that would come from putting my arms around someone. I had grown used to his gossamer appearance and the bolts and snatches of our link. Had that been all we were ever permitted, it would have been enough. But now. Now, he was warm and solid beneath my hands. We had been twice-blessed.

His heart beat a steady rhythm. I breathed him in, smoke and ink, and allowed my arms to loosen.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

I looked up, the question in my eyes.

Chakotay's hand came up to cup my cheek. His thumb swept across my mouth then rested on my chin. My lips parted. He leaned down, and his mouth — so unexpectedly hot — touched mine. His tongue ghosted across my lips, then delved inside. The slight tingling sensation I had come to associate with his touch did not manifest, of course, although I found my own body's natural responses to his presence hummed with their usual alacrity. 

His kiss was alive. He was alive. I pulled him closer. 

* * *

"Peters! What is the meaning of this? Am I to be summoned like a child in my own home?"

I myself had been summoned to the library not many minutes before. A thoroughly affronted Mrs. Templeton had introduced me to Mr. Brock, the magistrate, and Mr. Peters, the solicitor, who had requested my attendance. It was toward the end of the second day since Chakotay had left, and I had barely been able to focus on my lessons. Finally, little Beatrice had suggested we use the watercolors, and we all were content to paint the hours away; the children enjoyed the break from their studies, and I could at least occupy my hands even if my mind still strayed far beyond the house.

Chakotay was nowhere to be seen, but we could hear Lord Burleigh bellowing as he stormed down the hallway.

"Peters, what the devil —" he cut himself off as he entered the room. "Mrs. Davenport. I do beg your pardon. I did not know …"

"No need to apologize, Lord Burleigh," I responded coolly. "I am no fainting miss."

"Of course not. Still. Still." He turned to the men. "What is the meaning of all of this, gentlemen?"

"A serious accusation has been made against you," Mr. Brock said.

"An accu — whatever do you mean?" Burleigh's eyes drifted back to me, narrowing in suspicion, but I met his gaze blandly.

"No, no. It was not this lady." This was Mr. Peters. "A grave accusation indeed. Tell us, Burleigh. When was the last time you saw your cousin?"

"My cousin? What cousin? That American? We never met, you know that, man. Anyone would think you were entering your dotage."

"You are quite firm in that statement?" Mr. Brock asked.

"Of course I am, you damned fool."

"Be careful who you are calling a damned fool, cousin." Chakotay strolled into the room, resplendent and real. "I hate to contradict family, of course, but I am quite sure it was when you were bashing me upon the head, wasn't it?"

At Chakotay's entrance, Burleigh's face had gone first stone white then an apoplectic red. He lunged at Chakotay, nearly frothing in anger. " What are you — how — no, I killed you — I …"

Mr. Brock and Mr. Peters, who really was not anywhere near his dotage, pulled Burleigh away. Chakotay, I noticed, was unconcerned about Burleigh's ability to hurt him in a fair fight.

Mr. Brock patted Burleigh's shoulder. "Thank you for your confession and your identification. An attempted murder charge and a new installation in the House of Lords, all in one family. It's going to be a big week."

"The Lords? Accept a half-breed like him?" Burleigh, once wound up, seemed quite content to spew his wretched hatred.

"Right, my lad," said Mr. Peters.

"Now, St. John —" said Mr. Brock.

"I'm Burleigh, you snivelling little —"

"Not anymore you're not." 

* * *

Chakotay and I were married in a private ceremony, with only my little family and the children in attendance. 

Lady Burleigh's sister had come forward and offered to take the children, but if-and-until Chakotay and I decided to have children of our own, Henry was still the heir. And besides, I had grown quite fond of my charges. They might not have been my blood, but they were family. 

The story had spread far and wide of the mysterious reappearance of the American heir who had lain, unremembered for months, in a strange coma and needing neither food nor water, until he had suddenly regained his faculties and sought his inheritance. Henry looked at us with suspicion when Chakotay and I announced our engagement almost immediately after his "arrival", but Beatrice thought it was romantic, and Henry had begun to show a real tendency to indulge his sister of late. He had taken their father's treatment of her particularly hard and had become her staunchest defender and advocate. With his help, she could again treasure her genuine memories of their mother.

* * *

The children were asleep. My mother, sister, and brother-in-law were happily sequestered in the opposite wing of the house. And Chakotay … he was magnificent in his wedding finery. His long hair was glossy and free, all except for one braid down by his right ear. Not for the first time, I wondered what would it feel like, to have a man's hair brush along my breasts, my legs, as he sucked and licked his way …

"Well, wife?"

My gown had slipped to the ground in a heap of fabric. Chakotay's gloved hands traced down the laces of my corset. "Let's free you from this constraint, shall we?"

I did not immediately respond. He turned me in his arms, and after a moment of further hesitation, I lifted my eyes to his. 

"Unless this increases your pleasure?"

I should not have been ashamed. Of course he would understand. 

For the first time, I could voice my confession. "I have always enjoyed the constriction, the feeling of being bounded in. I had a maid once who used to indulge me, although she thought she was helping a vain woman decrease her waist span. But I cannot tighten them enough on my own, and Mark would not."

Chakotay's hands slid around my waist. He kissed my temple. Then he turned me around again until I was facing the fireplace. "I'll need to untie the knot before I can tighten the laces."

I nodded eagerly. As he tugged on the strands to release them, I said, "I could never understand it, because I hate to be circumscribed. My entire life was restrictions and rules."

"Because this was something you could control." I felt the give of the laces, the slight loosening of the boning and fabric. "It was your choice, not something forced upon you. And Mark took that control away again. Well-meaning as he was." Then Chakotay took a set of laces in each hand, and I prepared myself for ecstasy.

"Lift your breasts higher, so the nipples are above the boning of your corset."

I looked sharply over my shoulder at my husband. 

"Trust me," he said.

I reached up and gasped as my fingers came in contact with my heated skin. My nipples were already painfully tight. I rested them just above the seams of my corset and felt Chakotay give his first smart tug on the laces.

My hand shot out, seeking the edge of the mantlepiece, fingers scrambling for purchase. It felt … I wanted … I remembered his command from that night in the bath, to touch myself. It had brought us both such pleasure. Why should I not …? My free hand skittered between my legs, the short hem of my chemise rubbing blissfully against my skin before I pushed it away. I let out a sigh as my fingers found that nub. I heard a pleased rumble, and his fingers tightened in the laces. 

I stroked myself with each adjustment and tightening of the laces. I was slick, soaking. Against all imagining, I had found someone to recognize my secret desires, who not only indulged them but who accepted and supported them. 

"Enough?" There was just a hint of challenge in that question.

Without it, I might have stopped, drawn the line for myself, but now … "Once more," I moaned.

As Chakotay tied off the laces again, I drew in short breaths, testing the bounds of my constriction. "Thank you,' I whispered.

"Anything you want to ask. Anything you want to try. I will give it to you."

I had never imagined such trust could exist between two people. I reached for his left hand, my wet fingers darkening the white cotton of his glove. Pressed us together back to my center. "And I you."

I felt him reach between us, fumble to loosen the buttons at the fall of his trousers with only one hand. Then his manhood — his cock — was hot against my cheeks. One of his feet nudged against mine, and I widened my stance to keep my balance, curious of his intentions. He guided himself between my legs. I wanted to see him, see how exquisite he was. He felt so big. But then the head of his cock touched my quim, our fingers joined together at my front. He nudged against me, and he slid inside. 

Those first inches stretched me. My head fell forward to rest on my hand upon the mantlepiece. Chakotay's fingers left me, they — oh, they found my nipples. They pinched. The cloth of his gloves rasped faintly with each movement. His lips were hot against the base of my neck. His hair skimmed along my bare arms. Then, suddenly, he thrust again, and I let out a scream. I had never been so full, so …

My senses were overwhelmed. He surrounded me. I felt him everywhere. The air smelled of our musk. The wet sounds of our coupling filled my ears. I clenched around the feel of him, my hips matching the rhythm of his. I could feel the first tightening, that secret signal that _la petite mort_ was building inside me. 

Then he pulled out of me, and his manhood dripped with my essence. I felt it drag across my skin, leaving a trail of my desire.

"But …" I began, bereft.

"We will continue that another time. I promise. But tonight, I have something I think you'll love even more." 

Chakotay led me the few steps back to his armchair, stopping when the back of his knees met the edge of the seat. He was still fully clothed, and his glistening cock jutted out proudly between the hem of his shirt and his open trousers. I reached out my hand, desperate to touch him for the first time. He moaned as my fingers curled around him, not even able to meet in the circle I made around his base. His hand came up to join mine, and he showed me how to slide along his length, to cup him. It was a tighter hold than I would have used myself, but it clearly pleased him. 

As I learned the feel of him, he removed his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat. At another time, I would have found the slow reveal of his form tantalizing, but I was too caught up in the feel of his cock in my hand. Then that too was no longer enough. With my other hand, I pushed the hem of his shirt up, impatient to see bare skin. With a rumbling laugh that I felt at my very center, he reached behind him and pulled the linen over his head. His gloves fell to the floor next.

An expanse of broad skin appeared before me, the dark color broken only by the scattered circles and lines of ink. One full shoulder. Across a collarbone. Down where torso met hip. He was painted with birds, a tree, the stars of a sky that looked different than the one I knew. 

"I see we still have secrets to uncover, husband."

His lips crashed into mine, swallowing my chuckle, my groan. His tongue swept between my lips, and I met him fiercely. I bit at him. He nipped at me. It was like no kiss I have ever experienced, and we had a lifetime together to make more.

Then he sat down, pulling me into his lap. With a gasp, I settled my knees on either side of his hips. He urged me up so he could adjust his trousers around his firm cock. 

"Ride me."

My eyes flew to his. Could I?

His hands gripped my hips, positioned me above him, and he gave a gentle tug. "Seat yourself down on me and ride."

This night was unlike anything I had ever experienced with Mark. With him, our couplings had been on my bed, me recumbent, him rising and moving above between my legs. 

Tentatively, I bent my knees, bringing me in contact with that cock. I reached for him again, held him to me, and sank down another few inches. 

"That's right. Keep going."

Then we were fully joined. My breasts, aching from the gentle abrasion of cinched cloth meeting skin, bounced in front of my husband's mouth. I leaned in, offering myself to him. His tongue, hot and wet, circled a nipple, partook of my skin.

We were frantic, greedy, pounding together in a dance to which we both naturally knew the steps. Again, I could feel that tightening. Faster. I moved faster. And then I was crashing, spiralling into joy. I collapsed against Chakotay's chest, and let him move my body, use me as he thrust again and again, until he stuttered, drove, spilled inside me with a roar.

I lay curled against him, sleepy and replete. "You Americans know a thing or two about this, don't you?"

I felt a puff of air across my neck. "I was about to say something similar about scientists."

"A lady scientist and a native from the rebel colonies," I murmured drowsily. "All the doors of polite society are sure to be thrown open for us."

"Who needs society when we can stay right here, together?"

"A strong counterargument."

"Thank you, my love."

* * *

_"My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him; for with him, I was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him: all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life and light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived; and he lived in mine." - Charlotte Brontë,_ Jane Eyre


End file.
